Taking Chances
by SweetDreamsAreMadeOfThis2
Summary: Mary's been gone for a month, unaware that a tracer is informing Sherlock and John of her every move. Left alone to take care of Rosie, John has plenty of time to reflect on his life... and make unexpected decisions that will change it forever.
1. Chapter 1

It was with a long and weary sigh that John came down from Rosie's room and walked into the kitchen. The clock showed 19:30 – _dinner time_ , John thought, despite his lack of appetite. Rubbing his neck, he dragged himself to the fridge and opened it.

Baby food, opened tins of various kinds, leftovers from the night before… Everything inside looked terribly unappealing. But he had to eat something. And something healthy, so far as possible. He was trying to stay fit after all.

Letting out another sigh, he grabbed the last of the ready-cooked dishes – some roasted chicken with pasta and seasonal vegetables – closed the fridge's door and headed for the microwave. While his dinner heated up, he stopped by the wine rack and, without much hesitation, took out a bottle of white that he brought back to the table where the corkscrew was already waiting, picking up a glass from the dish drainer on his way. His gestures swift and self-assured, he opened the bottle and poured himself a generous measure, watching as the golden liquid gurgled out.

The sound had something soothing about it. Whether it be iced whiskey after a long day, fresh soda on a heated afternoon, or hot tea on a cold winter evening, it always was synonymous with comfort and enjoyment. Granted, he preferred his drink harder and darker, but he appreciated them all; as long as they achieved the desired effect. Tonight, he wanted to relax. And wine was the perfect remedy for that.

Swishing his choice of beverage around the glass, he took the time to sniff it and taste it, multiple times, until the 'ding' of the microwave brought his mind back to his dinner. Shooting an uninterested glance at it, he drank another gulp and, pouting in satisfaction, went to get his food. When he finally sat down, he turned on the radio to make up for the deafening silence in the room and began to eat, only half-listening to the evening news.

His mind was elsewhere and nowhere at the same time, and had been for several weeks now. He felt numb, like in a limbo state, where nothing could reach him. It was rather nice, actually; not feeling anything. Not _caring_ about anything, at least. Well, only about Rosie. And even then… he knew he could do better, way better.

With a sniff, he took a good sip of his wine and let his gaze wander around the kitchen, then across the living room, where his eyes fell on the coffee table and the laptop sitting on it with its screen down.

John didn't even take a look at it when he got home. In fact, he had ignored it completely for the past three days. He didn't want to know where she was. And he didn't want to bother to find out. She could be near, hundreds of miles away or on another continent… it didn't matter. She obviously knew what she was doing. She always did. And whatever he had to say never came under consideration. Hence her letter. That _bloody_ letter…

Before any dark thought could nag at him, John brought his attention back to his plate and finished it in a few mouthfuls, between two gulps of his wine. When he was done, he turned off the radio, pushed back his chair, and began to clear the table. As he came back for the wine and his glass, he mechanically looked up at the clock and pulled a face.

 _Christ_ … he muttered to himself. Only fifteen minutes had passed since the last time he'd checked. _This is going to be a long night_ , he thought. _Again_.

Resting his hands on his hips in jaded disbelief, he stared back down at the opened bottle, his brain empty and blank, and eventually reached for it along with his glass to bring them both to the living room. With a muffled grunt, he sat down in the middle of the couch, turned on the TV to a random channel, and poured himself another round before leaning back.

* * *

For a while, John lost track of time and became blissfully oblivious to the world around him – helped in that by the alcohol flowing through his system. But soon, a ring at the door made him snap back into reality.

 _What the hell…_

On the lookout, he squinted at the other end of the room and checked his watch: it was 20:30.

 _A quarter past eight only?!_ he cried out to himself after a double take. _Good god_ …

Running a hand over his face, he put down his glass and reluctantly got to his feet. Whoever it was, they were going to be disappointed: he wasn't in the mood to be neighbourly tonight. Or ever, for that matter.

That last thought made him snort at his own expense. What a jerk... He'd hate to have himself as a neighbour. Always grumpy, never happy… Well, in social settings that is. He never liked those. Not really. Greeting people as if he was glad to see them, wearing a fake smile all night, asking about what's-his-name's family when he couldn't care less, sitting through the telling of X's last vacation in Bermuda or Y's inescapable small talk about the weather… God, what a pain in the arse. It was so _boring._ But then, he was used to a more 'stimulating' environment – war zones, emergency units, explosions; investigations, chases around London, severed heads in fridges...

As he stopped by the door to unbolt it, he wondered if there was a polite way to tell someone to bugger off. Probably not, but he could try his best to make it clear without sounding like an utter prick. If there was any chance he wasn't considered one already.

Swinging the door open, he was just about to mumble an annoyed "Yes?" when the sight of a familiar dark-coated figure cut him short and made his eyes go wide.

"Sherlock?... Wh–what are you doing here?..."

The smile that the detective had been showing until now faded away, his brows furrowing in confusion. "We… agreed last week to meet at your place tonight, to check on Mary?... Don't you remember?..."

"Oh shit…" John breathed out, squeezing his eyes shut and hanging his head low. They _did_ agree. After that last case Sherlock had asked John to assist him with; a series of poisoning attempts in the West End theatre district. He remembered now. Shit.

"I'm sorry, I… I completely forgot," he said, looking back up at Sherlock whose expression had changed from bewilderment to concern.

"Are you alright?..."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's just… It's been a rough week."

Sherlock bit his lips. "Do you… want to postpone—"

"No, no," John butted in. "You're here now, so… let's get the hell on with it."

His reply had come out a bit more drily than intended, and John didn't need to see Sherlock's face as he let him inside to know that he had made him uneasy, and anxious. He could tell his brain was working around questions, gathering data and trying to come up with answers.

"Where's Rosie?"

"Mmm? Oh, um, in bed."

"Already? Is she okay?..."

"Yeah, yeah. She was just tired."

"Oh. Right."

Sherlock hadn't dared to move and was still standing a few steps from the door, hands behind his back. Clenching his own, John walked past him, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

"Would you like something to drink or…?" he asked, avoiding eye contact.

"No, I'm— fine, thank you..."

Sherlock's voice had paused in the middle and trailed off on the last words, and it took John a quick glance at him to see that he was staring at the coffee table – and the almost empty bottle of wine on it. He gritted his teeth.

"Please don't."

Sherlock's eyes shifted to John. "I… I didn't say anything."

"You did. With a look," John retorted, his jaw clamped shut, heading straight for the table to grab his glass. "And the answer is yes – I opened it tonight." He checked his watch. "An hour ago, actually," he quipped before taking a sip, looking anywhere but in Sherlock's direction.

"John…"

"No, no. I know what you're going to say and I don't need you, _of all people_ , to lecture me about substance abuse, thank you very much."

He gulped the rest of his wine and started pacing the farthest side of the room, shaking his head. His chest was burning with anger.

"Bloody hell – my ex-killer wife lied to me again, took off without a word, left me alone with our baby daughter to roam the fucking planet, and for what? To protect us from a bloke that used to be 'family', and who now wants her dead because he believes she betrayed him, which by the way wouldn't be remotely impossible given the things she's done since?…"

He gave a bitter chuckle and bit his lower lip.

"Yeah, sorry, but I think I'm allowed a drink or two. Or three or four, _whatever_."

Scoffing at his own words, he continued to walk back and forth for a while, clammy fingers drumming on the edges of his glass, until everything he'd just said echoed in his head – and crept in his heart.

Gradually, his steps shortened, and with them every inch of willpower he had drawn on during the past two weeks. And soon, he found himself unable to move at all; like a fly caught in a web; crippled by all the feelings he had tried very hard to push aside: guilt, loathing, remorse, regret... The aching in his chest spread to his throat, then to his eyes, and he couldn't help but let it go.

In a quiet sob, he lowered his head and covered his grimacing face with a trembling hand, while the other loosened its grip on the glass. How did it all come to this? How could he _let_ everything come to this? This joke of a life? God, he hated it. He hated what he had become. A pitiful ghost of himself, of the man he used to be, the man he used to _like_ , at least a bit more than he did now. How could things have gone so wrong? Why was it happening to him? What had he done to deserve—

The soft touch of a hand on John's shoulder cut his thoughts short and he sucked in a startled breath. God, Sherlock… He had almost forgotten he was there, that he'd been watching him, in forced silence, witnessing the poor spectacle he had just made of himself. Jesus, what a useless piece of shit he was.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered, feeling worse than ever.

He felt Sherlock's fingers squeeze his shoulder in response. "It's okay…"

John choke back another sob, shaking his head. "No, it's really not. I'm– I'm not–" He didn't even know where that sentence was supposed to go, but he didn't try to fill in the blanks. He felt lost, and ashamed. He'd never wanted Sherlock to see him like this. He was never meant to _know_.

Once again, Sherlock made John come back to the reality of the moment as his hand slowly moved across his shoulder blades and settled between them, his whole body shifting in front of John to invite him into his arms.

Drained from any ounce of energy he had left, John offered no resistance and let himself be pulled against Sherlock's chest, face still hidden behind his hand. He immediately felt at home, relieved, as if all the weight of the past weeks had been lifted off his shoulders. Sherlock's breathing was calm and deep, but John could sense the strong drums of his heart beneath, which, oddly enough, appeased him.

"I'm so tired, Sherlock… so tired…"

A tentative arm wrapped around him while warm and gentle fingers landed on his nape over his shirt collar. "You're not alone. I'm here for you, always."

His voice sounded even deeper when it resonated through his body, and the sensation was soothing. Just as much as Sherlock's words. John gave a loud sigh, hand leaving his face to rest on Sherlock's coat lapel, stroking it slightly with his thumb. "I know… Thank you…"

He couldn't even begin to describe how grateful he was to have him by his side right now. He could have left, called it quits, especially after the way John had treated him since he'd arrived. But he didn't. He stayed, for him. How could he put up with him, John didn't know. All he knew was that he felt incredibly lucky. And he wasn't ready to let go of that feeling yet.

Lifting his head a bit, he grabbed onto the tail of Sherlock's Belstaff and nestled his nose into the crook of his scarfed neck, his glass-holding hand finding its way up to Sherlock's hip. God, he smelled so nice… Was it perfume? Or the faint remnant of his after-shave? He couldn't tell. But he liked it. It was heady, exhilarating… just like him. With a smile, he buried his nose deeper in the cashmere of Sherlock's scarf and pressed himself closer.

He was beginning to feel sleepy from the wine – a bit giddy too – and the heat of Sherlock's body didn't help. How long had they been standing there? One minute? More? He didn't have the slightest idea. And he didn't care, really. He felt good, relaxed, _at peace_ for the first time in weeks. And he just wanted to enjoy it as much as he could, for as long as he would be allowed to.

"I really don't deserve you…" he muttered into Sherlock's scarf after a while, more as a statement than anything else. He could almost hear Sherlock's brow furrow at his words.

"Of course you do."

"I really don't," John smiled, hooking his chin over Sherlock's shoulder. "But I'm glad you're here."

This time, he didn't need to guess the expression on his face – Sherlock's arm tightening around him was enough of an answer. His chest filled with warmth, John nudged his head at Sherlock's, pulling him even closer.

"Sorry about earlier. For… the things I've said to you."

"It's alright."

"No, no. It was… mean, inconsiderate, and absolutely uncalled-for. I… was being a dick. For a change…"

Sherlock's stomach shook and rumbled against John as a low chuckle rose from his throat. John's smile widened.

"What?... You're agreeing with this, aren't you?"

"Just a little."

"Oh, well done!... I wasn't throwing you a line, you know?"

"Weren't you?" Sherlock teased in a higher-pitched voice, his smirk perfectly audible.

Once again, John couldn't remain unfazed and cracked a laugh into Sherlock's shoulder, hearing him respond in kind. "You sod," he joked, and Sherlock giggled some more.

For a moment, it seemed as if they had gone back in time, when everything was simple – when they would chortle like kids on crime scenes, play board games on rainy Sundays (just _not_ Cluedo), or spend their free evenings at home watching crap telly. And the feeling was wonderful.

With a last round of laughter, John slowly broke their embrace and let go of Sherlock's coat, his grin meeting his friend's. God, he was so beautiful when he smiled. The way his whole face lightened up and his eyes crinkled at the edges… It made him look ten years younger, if not more. Such a lovely sight. The loveliest John had ever seen, really.

"Thank you," he whispered, brushing the wool of the Belstaff with the tip of his fingers.

Sherlock's grin turned into a gentle smile and he gave a long, almost solemn nod. "You're welcome."

In the dim light of the room, John gazed at the features of his ridiculously gorgeous face, the dark and luscious curls surrounding it like the finely-crafted frame of a painting, the tender glow in his pale green eyes, the soft stretch of his generous lips, his oh-so kissable lips… Before he knew it, he was reaching for them; and before he could stop, he was pressing his mouth to Sherlock's. He lingered just enough to feel how firm and plump it was, and how warm too – just the way he had imagined it to be – and then pulled away.

As he opened his eyes, John saw that Sherlock's were still closed, and his lips parted. He looked frozen in place. John couldn't tell if that was a good or a bad thing, so he waited. When Sherlock's lids fluttered up, it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus. A hazy veil was hanging over them, as if he'd just woken up, and he had to blink several times to clear it away. But once he did, the sheer incomprehension that John read in them made his heart sink.

"Oh God, I'm– I'm sorry, I—" He took a quick step back and turned the other way, his head pounding. What he had done?... "I… I didn't want to— God…"

A hand on his guilty mouth, he ran off to the other side of the room, eyes darting around the place in utter panic. Why did he do this? What had gotten into him? What was Sherlock going to _think_?... Feeling dizzier by the minute, he stopped in his frantic pacing and dared a look in Sherlock's direction… who was still rooted to his spot in shock and confusion. John swallowed hard.

"Please, say something."

Sherlock's throat moved up and down. "I… I think I should leave…"

John felt the world crashing down around him. "N–no, please d—" His voice trailed off and he shook his head with a grimace, fists clenched in pain and anger. "Why, WHY do I have to ruin EVERYTHING!?" he roared, throwing his glass to the floor where it shattered at his feet.

A tense silence fell over the room, but John couldn't hear it. His ears were ringing, buzzing with nagging voices – his own. _How could you think he'd feel the same way? Of course he doesn't. Why would he? And why would he love YOU, anyway? Don't be ridiculous. You were never up to it. You were never WORTHY of it. You should have known better. Now you've lost the only friend you had, the only person you loved. And you're all alone. You're a failure. A FAILURE._

"John…"

Sherlock's call seemed to come from far away, drowned in the noise of John's inner turmoil. He could barely see his tall silhouette approaching out of the corner of his eye.

"John, y–your hand…" Sherlock's voice continued, clearer, but low and shaken. "You're bleeding…"

The last word rang like an alarm in John's head and he came back to his senses, glancing down at both his hands to see a small stream of dark red blood dripping down his left palm.

"Shit..." he breathed out, staring wearily at the cut.

For a handful of seconds, everything went blank. No pain, no feeling… only numbness and quiet. But as he began to think that things couldn't possibly get any worse, a sudden cry came from above; a baby's cry: Rosie.

"Oh G—"

John closed his eyes and threw his head backwards, face contorted in desperation.

When was it going to STOP?... He couldn't take it anymore. He just wanted to scream, cry, and collapse to the floor never to get up again. He just wanted to be left in peace. In PEACE. Why couldn't he have this? Why wasn't he ALLOWED this? WHY?...

"Don't worry," Sherlock said quickly, "I'll– I'll take care of her. Just… treat that wound, okay?... I'll be right back. Alright?..."

John felt cautious fingers touch his shoulder and he forced himself to open his eyes.

Sherlock looked agitated but resolved, and with a nod, he offered John his reassurance again. Looking down in shame, John gave a faint nod in return, then watched as Sherlock's thin legs flashed by to run upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Rosie's cries were getting louder above John's head, and every outburst was like a stab in the gut. She probably had woken up terrified upon hearing him shout; a thought that made John's burning eyes shed the tears which had been building up for a while. Wrenched with guilt, he exhaled a long and painful breath, wiped his cheeks, glanced down at his wounded hand again and, with another sigh, headed for the kitchen.

The cut in his palm was starting to hurt now. What an idiot. As if he needed that, on top of the rest. But he'd been looking for trouble, hadn't he? Maybe he deserved what was happening to him after all. Probably. He didn't even know anymore.

Reaching the sink, he turned on the cold water tap and put his hand under the stream, grimacing as it washed the blood from his wound. The cut wasn't deep, which was sort of a relief. There was no shard of glass that he could see or feel, nor any nerve damage. But he was good for a week of pain, antiseptics and discomfort. Great.

With his palm still under the flow, John opened the lower cupboard next to him and grabbed a clean tea towel from the folded pile. He waited another while for the bleeding to slow down a bit, then pulled his hand back from the water and applied the towel to the wound, turning off the tap.

The kitchen went silent all of a sudden, and that's when John realised that Rosie had stopped crying. For a second, he feared that something had happened to her. But then he remembered that Sherlock was with her. God, Sherlock… The image of his shaken face after John had kissed him flashed into John's mind, and his stomach churned. _What have I done…_ he thought once more, wondering how he would ever be able to look him in the eye again afterthat; if he would even _see_ him again after that – which he doubted very much.

A painful lump in his throat, he went back to the living room to pick up his briefcase where he kept a mini first-aid kit, in case he would come across someone in need of medical attention on his way to work. While still applying pressure to his palm, he took out all the necessities (antibiotic ointment packet, sterile gauze pad, roll of bandage) and tended to his wound. The bleeding had stopped rather fast, he noted – the only good thing that would have come out of this nightmarish evening.

Wrapping the last bit of bandage around his wrist, he cast a glance over the mess he'd made in the room. The floor and carpet were scattered with broken glass, and a few bloodstains marked the spot where he had stood motionless after his angry outburst. _Jesus_. If he didn't know better, he would have thought himself back in Afghanistan, on those nights when he'd stop a fight between two drunken comrades in arms. Except _he_ was the drunkard in this case.

With his umpteenth sigh of the day, John left everything as is and stepped across the glass minefield to head upstairs. Everything was still quiet on the first floor, the slow and heavy thud of his footsteps on the carpet being the only sound he could hear. But as he was getting closer to the main landing, the low rumble of Sherlock's baritone began to reach his ears. Except he wasn't talking. He was _singing_.

 _"Oh what a glorious thing to be  
A healthy grown up busy busy bee  
Visiting the picnics, quite a little tease  
Raising little lumps upon the boy-scout's knees_

 _I'd like to be a busy busy bee  
Being just as busy as a bee can be  
Flirting with the butterfly strong upon the wing  
Whoopee! Oh death, where is thy sting?"_

A lopsided smile curved John's lips despite himself. What on earth was this song? He didn't even know Sherlock could sing, and very well at that! He was playing along the lyrics perfectly, altering his voice when needed, and John could only imagine the look of pure fascination on Rosie's little round face.

Keeping a low profile, he climbed up the last steps and sneaked through the hallway to the open door of Rosie's nursery, just in time to catch Sherlock making _bzzz_ sounds as part of the song. With a grin, John craned his head around the frame and shot a glance inside.

Sherlock had taken off his coat and was holding Rosie in his arms, rocking her in rhythm with his back to the door. The moonlight seeping through the curtains gave his lean figure an ethereal glow, the bouncy locks of his hair a deep blue in the semi-darkness. As he moved around the room – and on to the next verse of the song – John got a glimpse of Rosie. She was on her way back to sleep, eyes half-closed, her heavy lids flying open every now and then to keep listening to Sherlock. She really liked that song. And its singer.

A fond smile on his face, John came out of hiding and rested his shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed, watching as Sherlock paced the room once more.

 _"But maybe I wouldn't be a bee  
Bees are all right when alive, you see  
But when bees die, you really should see 'em  
Pinned on a card in a mucky mus–"_

His steps came to a halt when he finally noticed John's presence. And despite the obscurity, John could see that he was blushing. He beamed at him.

 _"– eum?"_

Sherlock blinked, looking flustered. "I'm–I'm sorry, what?..."

"The rhyme. ' _Pinned_ _on a card in a mucky museum_ ', is that it?" John asked, his voice hushed so he wouldn't wake Rosie up.

"Y–yes, it… it is."

John nodded and smiled, admiring the picture before him: Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, holding a baby in his arms, _his_ baby, with all the care in the world – the most beautiful sight he never thought he'd laid his eyes on.

"I'll… put her back to bed," Sherlock continued in a murmur, waiting for John to gesture a yes before heading for Rosie's crib.

The attention he showed when he was holding her shone through again as he bent over the cot to place her into it, his large hands seeming even bigger wrapped around her tiny, chubby body. He didn't let go until she was lying safe on the mattress, and when he finally did, John caught him resting gentle fingers on her stomach – a gesture that made his heart melt… and ache. What had he done…

As Sherlock turned around, John swallowed his rising guilt and put on a large smile, straightening up away from the door frame. "Thank you," he whispered when Sherlock got near.

A soft smile answered his. "My pleasure."

"Really? Babies?" John teased.

"They're not so bad."

John gave a quiet laugh and stepped back out of the nursery into the hallway, followed by Sherlock who pulled the door behind him. John glanced up from his shoes at him, sharing another chuckle, then averted his eyes. The cheerfulness of the previous minute had shifted into an awkward silence, and John suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He knew they would have to talk about what had happened earlier, and the very idea petrified him.

"How is your hand?..." Sherlock asked, breaking the ice for them.

John looked up at him again, then at his bandaged palm. "Oh, um…" He had almost forgotten about it. "Fine, it's… just a minor cut. Nothing to worry about," he said with a flashed smile, his gaze flicking down almost as quickly.

"Good, good."

John could hear in Sherlock's voice that he felt just as uneasy as he did, and knowing why broke his heart even further. How could he have done this to him? He was never going to be comfortable around him after that. He was never going to be _around_ after that. It was over. _They_ were over.

"Would you like me to stay tonight?" Sherlock offered. "To look after Rosie in case she wakes up again, while you rest?"

John shook his head, numb. "No. It will be fine."

"Are you sure?"

The question hung in the air as John pondered whether to lie or not. What did he have to lose, anyway? Nothing. Not anymore. So why keep pretending? He couldn't fool him any longer now. Might as well go all the way down. Like a soldier.

"No," he let out at last, a lump rising in his throat. He did not dare raise his eyes and kept them fixed on the carpeted floor, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"John…" Sherlock began. He sounded pained. "Let me help you… You know I'll do anything for you. Anything. Just tell me."

The words crushed what was left of John's heart, and he closed his eyes before they could well up. "You can't help me."

"Why?..."

"Because… you can't give me what I want."

"And what _do_ you want?"

John bit his lips hard to stop the tears from falling down, feeling like dying inside as he stared up into Sherlock's face and croaked the answer. "You."

For a split moment, it seemed that time had stopped. Sherlock wouldn't move or even breathe, just stood there with his big, dilated eyes fixed on him. But soon reality hit back and he resumed blinking, in the same way he had earlier, his mouth sliding open in a mute reply.

John couldn't bear to hold his gaze and watch the inevitable pity take over it. Because what else could he feel for him? After everything he had witnessed tonight? The drinking, the tears, the outbursts, the distress… He _was_ pitiful. An utter wreck. Too far gone to be saved, to _deserve_ to be sav—

"What makes you think I can't give you that?"

It took John a handful of seconds to realise that Sherlock had spoken, and when the words fell into place, a rush of adrenaline flowed through him. He didn't hear that right. He couldn't have.

"What?..."

He barely made out his own voice over the pounding in his ears. He couldn't have heard that right. He just couldn't…

"What makes you think I can't give you that?" Sherlock repeated, calm.

John stared at him. He couldn't be saying what he thought he was saying. It wasn't possible. It wasn't—

A painful throb in his chest, he searched Sherlock's features again, trying to find an answer, trying not to hope, not _allowing_ himself to hope... until what he read in the detective's eyes removed any doubt. Breathless, John looked into his face one more time and, letting the tears free, seized it to pull him into a kiss.

The warm welcome of Sherlock's lips made him shiver, and he had to hold himself back from sobbing against them. His hands were trembling, his breath shaky as he pulled away only to press another kiss to Sherlock's mouth, his heart bursting when he felt Sherlock kiss him back, the ghost of thin fingers on his hips.

 _Oh God…_

With a gasp he pulled away again, clinging on the curls at Sherlock's nape as he cracked his eyes open, meeting Sherlock's. They were bright with emotions that he never thought he'd see in them; emotions he never thought he'd see directed at _him_ : desire, fulfilment, love… There was some timorousness among them too, and regret – the regret not to have showed him sooner, to have caused him pain.

Brushing the curve of his lower lip with a thumb, John gazed at him with all the adoration in the world, pushing back a lock of dark hair on his pale forehead before kissing him again.

The sensation of Sherlock's mouth squeezing against his made him shudder anew, even more so when it opened to his and began to work up and down, following John's lead. His senses tingling, John grabbed Sherlock's lapel to pull him closer, his other hand losing its way into the smooth curls. As he did, Sherlock stepped into him and took hold of his waist, thumbs stroking his ribs through the fabric of his shirt.

Their bodies were touching now; and God was Sherlock's hot. He could feel the warmth of his skin oozing out of his open collar, without even touching it. A flush of heat overwhelming his own body, John pulled him into a deeper kiss, blood pumping through his veins as he dared the slightest hint of a tongue. Sherlock's fingers tightened up on his waist, but it didn't take long for him to answer back, the slick and keen touch sending a jolt down John's spine who couldn't help but moan.

 _Jesus…_

A burning urge within him, John pressed into Sherlock as much as he could and kissed him harder, deeper still, panting with every move, every embrace, every quiver, years of frustration and lust and repressed feelings pouring out of him, the raging fire in his loins making him beg for more, and more, and—

"God…" John broke off the kiss and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder, hands clenched at his jacket and neck. "For all these years, I thought…" he gasped, unable to finish.

"Well… as ever…" Sherlock panted, "… you see but you do not observe…"

His smile was audible between the huffs and puffs of his heaving chest, and John couldn't help but chuckle, breathing out a playful "Oh, shut up!" which prompted them both to burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, as much as their labouring lungs could muster.

"Oh God…" John managed after a while, straightening up to look at Sherlock who smiled at him; the sweetest and most loveful smile he'd ever seen on him.

"Tea?" he asked in a soft voice, respiration almost back to normal.

John nodded, unable to take his gaze off him. "Tea."

* * *

 **Notes:**

The nursery rhyme Sherlock is singing is called The Bee Song, by Arthur Askey: watch?v=Xy9JZLmgrPE

(Bzzzz Bzzzz)

Oh what a glorious thing to be  
A healthy grown up busy busy bee  
Whiling away the passing hours  
Pinching all the pollen from the cauliflowers

I'd like to be a busy busy bee  
Being just as busy as a bee can be  
Flying round the garden sweetest ever seen  
Taking back the honey to the dear old queen

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me

(Bzzzz Bzzzz)

Oh what a glorious thing to be  
A healthy grown up busy busy bee  
Making hay while time is ripe  
Building up the honeycomb just like tripe

I'd like to be a busy busy bee  
Being just as busy as a bee can be  
Flying all around the wild hedgerows  
Stinging all the cows upon the parson's nose

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me

Bzzzz Bzzzz

Oh what a glorious thing to be  
A healthy grown up busy busy bee  
Visiting the picnics, quite a little tease  
Raising little lumps upon the boy-scout's knees

I'd like to be a busy busy bee  
Being just as busy as a bee can be  
Flirting with the butterfly strong upon the wing  
Whoopee! Oh death, where is thy sting?

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me

Bzzzz Bzzzz

Oh what a glorious thing to be  
A nice obedient busy busy bee  
To be able to be one must contrive  
For bees in a beehive must behave

But maybe I wouldn't be a bee  
Bees are all right when alive, you see  
But when bees die, you really should see 'em  
Pinned on a card in a mucky museum

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me

Bz bz bz bz  
Honey bee, honey bee  
Bz if you like  
But don't sting me


	3. Chapter 3

3

"Ta," John said as Sherlock put a steaming mug of tea on the table in front of him, then sat on the next chair with his own, his large hands wrapping around the ceramic and almost making it disappear from view.

They had not spoken a word since they'd gone downstairs, Sherlock immediately taking charge of the tea while John sat and watched him flutter around the kitchen, the both of them exchanging smiles and glances from time to time.

The whole situation felt surreal; not exactly back to where it was before, but not exactly anywhere yet either. They had found their spark again, that bond and complicity they had always shared and which had made them who they were back in the days. But there was something more now. Something not quite defined, but something serenely evident.

"Can I ask you a question?" John spoke after a while.

"Of course."

"About Irene Adler..."

"Oh, for God's sake..." Sherlock sighed calmly. "Do we really need to go all over that again?..."

"Well..."

"Fine. Once and for all: I was never in love with her, she was never in love with me, it was just a game, we played, she lost. End of story."

"Alright, alright! That's... Okay, good." He let a few seconds pass, fingers drumming on his mug as another name crossed his mind. "And... Janine?"

Sherlock stared at him in indulgent disbelief. "Seriously?"

"Okay, Okay! Sorry," John backed down, taking refuge in his tea. "So... 'He made me wear the hat' and '7 times a night in Baker Street'..."

A half-despairing, half-amused laugh interrupted him. "You _actually_ believed that?" Sherlock exclaimed. "God, she really played everyone, did she?" He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "She sold these stories for a fortune to pay me back for using and lying to her. None of it ever happened. It was all sensationalist fabrication, for selling purposes. They're called rags for a reason, you know."

"Oh. Right." John blushed, feeling a bit stupid, but not quite fully rid of his doubts yet. He stared at the light-brown liquid in his mug. "You _did_ share a bath with her, though..."

"Oh for Christ's–"

"And you kissed her."

"No, _she_ kissed me and I didn't like it," Sherlock retorted.

"No?"

"No." Sherlock looked at him and shook his head again, smiling despite himself. "What part of 'Girlfriends are not my area' did you not understand that first night?"

"Well, you've got to admit it's ambiguous."

"It wasn't supposed to be."

"Alright. So..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "So, I don't fancy women, John. Never have, never will."

"OK."

"Is it clear now?"

"Clear."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

"Good."

Sherlock raised his mug to his lips and sipped a long mouthful of tea, silence settling on the kitchen. His own lips pursed in embarrassment, John glanced at him. It only took their gazes to meet for both of them to crack up.

"I'm sorry," John chuckled, running a hand over his face before clasping it back around his cup.

"I don't blame you. I voluntarily kept you in the dark on numerous occasions."

"Why?"

"For the same reason as you: because I didn't think you felt the way I did."

John stared at him for a moment, then gave a sad sniff. "We've been complete idiots, haven't we?"

"From a communication standpoint, yes," Sherlock said with a little smile, trying to lighten things up. John scoffed and Sherlock took another sip. "What about you?" he asked after a while, his eyes fixed ahead on the table.

John's brows furrowed. "Me?"

"Major Sholto?" Sherlock continued hesitantly.

"Oh, so we're doing _my_ dating history now?"

"You started it!"

John laughed. "I did, I did. And... yes. We, um... we were involved once."

"Something serious?"

"Rather, yes."

"Why did it end?"

John sighed. "Well... War's not pretty. It's just... pain and suffering. Fear. Death. Not a favourable environment for relationships. Not romantic ones, anyway."

"And... after the war? You never thought about... contacting him again?"

"He was still deployed when I got sent home. I didn't want to interfere, cause him trouble. Supposing I would..." he added with a scoff. "I had shut myself away at the time, anyway. Didn't want to see anyone. And then I met you," he smiled. "Thanks to Mike."

"Good old Mike," Sherlock smiled in turn.

"Yeah."

"And if you hadn't? Met me? Would you have tried to... see him again? Once his assignment was over? To... pick up where you left off?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I can't say for sure." He paused. "Why are you asking?"

"Just curious."

John's mouth stretched into a smirk. "Well..." he took Sherlock's hand, "I'm glad I met you, if that's what you want to know."

Sherlock blushed. "N–no, that's not... I– I just..." His eyes went from John's face to John's hand laid over his to John's face again, before dropping down with a touché expression. "Thank you," he said in a low voice, his gratitude palpable.

John gave him a gentle squeeze and curled his fingers back around his mug, grinning at the memory of that unforgettable 29th of January when both their paths crossed, never to fully part, for better or worse. He could still see him, all young and smart and handsome in his impeccable tailor-made suit, focused on whatever experiment he was conducting that day, glancing across at him and Mike as they walked in the room. Polite, but with an ounce of arrogance and pretentiousness. And _so_ enigmatic. He was hooked from that day on – and fell for him not long after that.

"What about now?..." Sherlock ventured, breaking the short silence that had fallen over the kitchen again, and by doing so cutting John's contemplation short.

John looked up at him. "Now? You mean Mary?"

Sherlock nodded. "I thought you were..."

"Happy?"

"Yes."

John took a deep breath and let it go slowly. "I wanted to. I tried to be. But truth is – I never was. And I never could have been. Our marriage was over before it even started, really. And we struggled ever since. At least I did."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I really wanted you to be happy."

"I know," he repeated, twirling the mug between his palms. "Is that why you told me she'd saved your life? That night you escaped from the hospital to expose her and accepted to... _take her case_?"

Sherlock stared at him with big, round eyes and opened his mouth several times, no sound coming out of it.

"Did you really think I would believe any of that?" John continued, calm. "After she shot you, _and_ threatened to shoot you again?"

"I..." Sherlock swallowed hard. "I wanted to give you both a chance…"

"At what? A dysfunctional marriage?" John laughed without heart. "If it weren't for Rosie, we would have separated a long time ago. Hell, if you hadn't disappeared for two years, none of this would have happened."

At this, a shadow crossed Sherlock's face and he winced a little.

"But that's the point, isn't it?" John carried on, driven by the exhilarating freedom to finally speak up. "None of this would have happened. We wouldn't be here, talking about all this. Yeah, we could have gone about it way earlier, sure. But we didn't know. And maybe we needed this. Maybe... we needed to hit the lowest point to rise up higher, I don't know. All I know is that... even though I regret the time we wasted – and the pain – in the end, we are the choices that we make. And this..." he placed his hand over Sherlock's once more, holding it tight, "this... is mine. Today."

John beamed and gazed into the glistening veil that had taken over Sherlock's pale green eyes. He had listened to him in absolute and immobile silence, hanging on his every word, absorbing them with the most care, and the emotion they had stirred was now written all over his face.

His mouth ajar, he blinked the tears away and looked down for a couple of seconds, a misty smile making its way to his lips. "Sure you won't regret it?" he asked, staring back up at John.

"I'm willing to take the risk," John teased. "But I'm pretty sure I won't."

Sherlock nodded and lowered his eyes again, observing John's thumb as it brushed across his knuckles. "You never really forgave me for playing dead, did you?" he said, more as a fact than a question, his voice coming out like a hoarse whisper.

"N–no, I did," John shifted in his seat, "I did forgive you. But maybe... not in every way." He stroked the back of Sherlock's hand, trying to figure out how to best explain it. "I think I forgave you as a friend, but… not... as a lover. Well, a _not-yet-declared_ lover anyway _._ If that makes sense. D'you see what I mean?"

"I believe I do," Sherlock said, a pained look growing on his face. "I'm so sorry..."

"I know. Me too."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and both fell silent, their fingers playing with each other in a shy and absent-minded dance while they watched them, musing on that last conversation.

"Would you like another cup of tea?" Sherlock offered eventually.

"Mmm? Oh, um..." John looked down to his half-drunk beverage gone lukewarm. "Actually, I didn't even finish this one."

"Oh."

"And neither did you," he added, glancing across at Sherlock's almost full mug.

"Oh."

John chuckled at his confused face and gave him a tender smile. "What happened to the Great Detective's observation skills, uh?"

A hint of the same smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. "You," he said, looking him in the eye.

John felt his stomach flutter. "I... didn't mean to hinder your abilities."

"You don't. You make me better."

"You do that by yourself."

"With a little help."

John chuckled again and shook his head indulgently, staring at the ridiculous man sitting next to him. God, he loved him. He loved him so damn much.

"So, um... Do you want me to stay for the night? You said no earlier, but… I have the feeling you may have changed your mind."

"If it's no bother, yes."

"Of course not."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

John nodded his acknowledgement and sucked in a long, relieved breath, giving Sherlock's hand one last pinch. "I'm gonna go upstairs to get you a pillow and a blanket," he said as he stood up.

"OK."

"And take a towel out in case you want to use the bathroom."

"Thanks."

John waved at him as if to say 'Don't mention it' and headed out of the kitchen, only to pause on the threshold to the living room: " _And_ clean this mess!" he laughed, eyeing the floor littered with broken glass.

He had somehow completely forgotten about it.

* * *

Having made sure he didn't overlook anything, John trotted his way back downstairs, a blanket thrown over his shoulder and a pillow tucked under his arm.

"Here you go!" he said, handing them over to Sherlock who was standing next to the couch.

"Thank you."

"I hope you'll be comfortable… Never tried sleeping on it."

"I'll be fine, don't worry."

"Oh, and I left everything you need otherwise in the bathroom. Towel, flannel... Found you a spare toothbrush, too."

"Thank you, John."

John bowed his head. "And now for the cleaning..."

He went to fetch a small brush from the broom cupboard and crouched with a groan in the middle of the glass minefield, gathering up the shattered pieces around him. Once he was done, he tossed them out in the bin and put the brush away.

"Well, that's better!" he exclaimed as he reappeared in the living room.

Sherlock looked up from his improvised bed on the couch and beamed. He had just finished arranging it – pillow propped up against the left armrest, blanket laid over the back, and a couple of cushions stacked on both sides to make it cosier and avoid banging into the wooden frame of the couch.

John walked up to him, hands on his hips. "You sure you'll be alright?"

"Yes."

"If you need anything, feel free to wake me up, OK?"

"I'll be fine. And I remind you that the whole purpose of my staying is to allow you to rest."

"Right! Yes, sorry." John pursed his lips, then remembered one last detail and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a loo down the hall, by the way. So you won't have to climb up and down if nature calls."

"Duly noted."

John nodded and stepped closer, looking around. "Well, that's about it, I think..." He smiled and stopped in front of Sherlock who smiled at him in turn. "So... Good night, then?"

"Good night, John."

They stood gazing and grinning at each other for a few beats, then John closed the distance between them, cupping Sherlock's nape to plant a kiss on the corner of his lips. He lingered there with his eyes shut, savouring the warm and soft feeling of Sherlock's mouth that he had longed to recapture since he first got a taste of it, the renewed touch short enough to make his heart flutter, but long enough to revive the fire inside him.

Tugging at the small curls above his collar he pulled away slightly, face still close to his, nose brushing against his cheek for yet another moment before he moved back for good. As he did, his eyes locked with Sherlock's and both just smiled, dissolving into silent giggles like two inexperienced sweethearts discovering love and intimacy.

 _God, he looks beautiful_ , John marvelled. And with that thought he kissed him again, on the lips this time, a tingling shiver running down his body as Sherlock's mouth responded in kind. Exchanged smiles, shared looks, and John went for another, and another, until he wasn't playing coy anymore. Pecks turned into more daring kisses, each one hotter and deeper than the last, and soon gasps and moans were filling the room, John hanging onto Sherlock's jacket lapels while Sherlock cradled his face with trembling hands.

"John..." he panted, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against John's.

"What?..."

"We... we shouldn't..."

John felt his heart sink. "What?... Kiss?..."

Sherlock shook his head quickly. "N–no, I... I mean..."

"We shouldn't because of Mary?..."

Sherlock blinked painfully at the name. "Maybe... we should wait... until things are resolved..."

It was John's turn to shake his head. "I'm done waiting, Sherlock. We've waited for too long already. We lost and wasted too much time. I..." He paused to gather his courage and finally say the words he had kept buried all these years, a heavy thump in his chest as he did. "I love you, Sherlock. I love you, and I want to show you. Let me show you. Please. Let me..."

He took Sherlock's curly head in his hands and stared into the flow of emotions that was taking over every inch of his face; his beautiful, pure, open face; so open that he didn't need to hear him say the three words back to know he was feeling the same.

"OK..." Sherlock whispered at last, his eyes gleaming and almost blurry from tears. "But... not here. It... It wouldn't be..."

"You're right, you're right. I'm... I'm sorry, I... I didn't want to... make you..."

"I know."

John smiled at him and wiped the wet corner if his almond-shaped eyes with a thumb, his own eyes filling with happy tears. "You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes. A better man than I am."

"You're better than you give yourself credit for."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Well, I am. So I'll be for two."

Sherlock gave him a faint, misty smile and John couldn't help but crack an overwhelmed laugh in answer, pulling him into a hug.

"Thank you," he breathed to his ear, a thin trail of tears trickling down his cheeks as he closed his eyes. The arms around him squeezed tighter, and with a contented sigh he let it all go, abandoning himself to the peace of the moment and the warmth of Sherlock's embrace.

An hour could have passed and he wouldn't have noticed. He was feeling good; good and safe. It hadn't always been like that; especially when pain and frustration were the only sentiments that being close to Sherlock would arouse in him. But things had changed now. He didn't have to hide anymore. He didn't have to pretend to be someone he was not. He could be himself, and finally at one with his feelings. And the sense of forbidden love and desire that Sherlock once embodied belonged to the past. He was his sanctuary now. A new hope. A promise for the future.

Breathing him in one last time, John slowly released hold of him and took a step back, his hands sliding down to settle on Sherlock's shoulders. Once again, his smile met Sherlock's, and with one last look they both sealed their silent pledge.

"Good night..."

"Good night, John."

* * *

In his bed that night, John didn't get much sleep. He spent most of it lying awake, staring at the ceiling with a smile while his mind played the events of the evening.

For the first time in months, he was filled with a sense of clarity. Speaking freely and saying out loud what he had always felt deep down had made everything transparent and all the more obvious: he and Mary were done. He knew what he had to do, what he _wanted_ to do. Until now, he had been living one day at a time. Today, he could look to the future; a future with Sherlock, and Rosie.


End file.
